Monday, July 27, 2015

July 27

On August 1 at 6pm, I'm going to host a live class / chat about publishing. Come on and join in. It's going to be a lot of fun. We'll have publishers and writers there to talk about it in general and to give you help specifically on your work, so have some to send to us during the conversation. It will be from 6-10, but you can come and go as you like! Hope to see you there!


  1. Firemen

    On my twelfth birthday
    we moved from
    West Covina to La Verne

    from a town that didn’t
    exist a few years before
    I was born to a town that
    was almost eighty years old
    and where my Great-grandparents
    were buried in the cemetery
    that was right behind our house

    La Verne had some really
    old houses - you can still
    see them when you drive
    through the town
    beautiful old houses

    and old beat up houses
    ready to die houses
    at the end of one street
    was an old house
    with no other houses
    next to it

    Our volunteer fire department
    didn’t get much practice
    I only knew of one
    arson in town

    so for practice they
    burned the old house down

    it was fun to watch it burn
    knowing it was safe
    well, somewhat safe they
    were just a volunteer
    fire department

  2. That's a great poem. It would be a really good live poem too!!!

    1. Thanks John. I need to clean up the formatting a bit. This one needs a more formal punctuation. That's what I get for writing and posting it at Midnight.

    2. great one. love its specificity and the fascination that a fire exerts over us.

  3. What’s buried rises

    She unearths
    stones. The earth is so dry
    That she had to bring her pickaxe from
    Next door and my god how she
    swings it, thighs elegant
    Splayed like a dancer in her Sunday dress, she reminds me of
    Norwegian farmer ancestors, while I the decadent
    Russian bring up the fractured rocks. They look strange—
    The broken stones have the look of markings and
    I stop her from swinging. I study the stones. What about the
    Petroglyphs? I ask —
    That guy found them down by the bay and he just picked
    Them up and made them a decorative border for the house
    He was building on spec. Oh gosh, she says, resting her arm. I wouldn’t
    Want that bad juju. I look into the hole she’s made
    I wonder who lived here, I say. She shrugs, noone
    Probably, there was all trees here until you cleared them.
    They took out too much, I tell her. We saved what we could and I yelled about
    The alder and the yew.
    I pick up the big stone with its possible white thread of meaning
    Set it down near the lavender I’m going to plant.
    We have too little respect for the layers, I say.
    She sighs, picks up the axe. Brings it up over her shoulder
    To strike.

    1. I love those last three lines. Beautifully delivered. It's a great poem too!

  4. Only in the Lonely

    Words are resurrected
    from the lines embedded
    deep within the hearts and minds
    Arising to great battles
    being fought
    on creative fronts
    where wars are won
    with the desires and wants
    Saying the most with the least
    expressing the pain from disease
    and the joy from the laughter
    only after the experience
    we alone dare
    with poetry
    being home where
    the poem in known
    to roam only in the lonely

  5. Splitting Atoms

    A dangerous leak
    Released a devil never meant to be loose
    Now nature can reclaim